I'll Tell You Something You Already Know
by scriptmanip
Summary: 'It's easier to be angry with your mum even though you've only yourself to blame. Even though this whole Saturday evening affair is all your fault.'
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello lovelies! I solemnly swore to myself [and a few others] that the next thing I posted would be our conclusion to ROYL. But then, I don't know, I just felt like writing a little something else. I hope you'll forgive me. The second part of the epilogue, and final installment to ROYL, is on its way - I suppose we're just taking the scenic route. Hope you all are having a lovely weekend. It's gotten exceptionally colder where I live so the pug and I are cuddled in front of the fire, enjoying our Saturday.

* * *

In your head, rolling the idea around a few times, it doesn't feel all that massive, not something that would make your palms sweat or your pulse quicken. But then, a few days later, it's Saturday morning, and you're stood in the produce area of the grocery, holding a tomato, a crumpled piece of paper from your English notebook, and feeling a sense of unwavering panic. It's not subsided even after pedalling furiously all the way home, a reusable bag made from hemp or some shit and full of items from your shop slung over your shoulder. And your anxieties only surge higher upon finding your mum, still pottering around the front gardens in her ridiculous sun hat, instead of an empty house as you'd expected. She's meant to be volunteering at the community centre and not _here_, pruning her rhododendrons and smiling at you while you ditch your bicycle against the porch.

"What's all this?" she asks, chipper and grinning, placing both hands on her hips as you hurry up the front steps.

"What? It's _nothing_."

She means the bag over your shoulder. And she means that you'd left an hour earlier under the guise of needing tampons and instead have turned up hauling your weight in vegetables. You've not stopped even as you say it, and head into the house without looking back.

But of course she finds you in the kitchen moments later because she can't seem to take a fucking hint, and anyway it's not like you were hiding from her or anything.

The contents of the bag now dumped onto the table, your mum starts taking inventory and then picks up an onion while looking over at you. "You're planning a meal?"

"What are you – Sherlock fucking Holmes now or something?"

She grins at your profanity, just as she has since you were three, and sets the onion back onto the table. "Is Emily coming over then?"

"_No!_" When you look up, scowling until it hurts and wielding a carrot, your mum's brow is raised and her mouth smirking. With an all-too familiar eye roll, you grunt in frustration, "I mean, yes," then open the fridge for no reason at all. "So can you please just bugger the fuck off?"

She doesn't say anything in response, and it's often a fucking draw these days on which boils your blood quicker: her input on your life's decisions or her silent concession.

An hour later, when your mum actually has managed to leave you alone, you've got it mostly sorted. There isn't a recipe, just an assortment of things you think will taste good and that you're fairly sure Emily likes. The mushrooms are a bit of a gamble, but based on what little you know of Emily's mum's cooking, they're probably not the scariest thing she's been asked to eat.

By mid-afternoon, your mum is _still_ at the house, and you could swear she's done it purposefully – given you some falsified schedule of her Saturday plans just to catch you in the act of doing something sweet and thoughtful. Just so she can lurk around, dusting the cutlery or knitting fuzzy hats, making you even more uncomfortable and anxious than you already are about having a date. A date with Emily. Your skin sort of flushes at the thought, and the heat is then worsened by the fact that you're stood over the bloody stovetop.

It's easier to be angry with your mum even though you've only yourself to blame. Even though this whole Saturday evening affair is all your fault. Because you've still not learnt to keep your mouth shut when it seems you're about to lose an argument. And, it hadn't even been that, really.

* * *

"It was _not_ a date, Emily."

You've been sat in the back garden, smoking fags, avoiding your mum and the lunacy of her social circle, for most of the evening. The summer air is almost perfect, and Emily's brought wine, though you've hardly drank any. Because it's starting to feel even more incredible – the soft touches, the light kisses, the _not-so-light_ kisses – being with Emily without the heavy haze of spliff or booze. So you're just propped up against a tree, sat in the grass, with Emily's legs draped across your lap, and your hands resting atop her kneecaps.

"How was it not a date?" she laughs, sitting up to rest her weight against her hands in the grass. "I asked you to hang out, alone for once, I paid for your pint, you _flirted_, and you walked me home."

"Emily—"

"_Naomi."_ Emily's mocking you, tilting her head to one side, and pulling a face, making you wish that scowling were still possible while looking directly at her.

But so much of what you had figured out with Emily has changed, and so you've got to look away in order to scoff, "We were at Keith's awful tavern, for fuck's sake."

"And?"

"And it smells like rotting sardines," you argue, which of course only makes her laugh. "And I did not walk you home, we just happened to be walking in the same direction."

"If you say so," Emily practically sing-songs, falling back onto the grass and folding her hands behind her head.

"Honestly, if that's your idea of a date, Emily."

She's on her elbows in an instant. "And you'd have done any better?"

"That's not what I—"

"No, go on then," Emily smirks, a challenging arc to her brow that makes your palms sweat against the skin of her knees.

"Well, it's not like it'd be hard to top Keith's pub and some bollocks trivia night."

"You can't come up with anything – just admit it," Emily laughs, lying back down on the grass.

And so you speak, for the millionth time, without thinking better, and tell her, "I know exactly what sort of date I'd plan for you, smartarse."

Emily opens her eyes to the sun, squinting and shading them with one hand. "That so?"

"Yes, if you must know."

"Well then, what exactly have you been waiting for?"

You light a fag, replacing your lighter into your jeans pocket before resting your hand back onto Emily's bare kneecap.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't recall being _asked_ on this brilliantly planned date of yours," Emily smiles, squinting again as she uses her hand that had been shielding her eyes to motion for your cigarette.

You watch her take a drag, watch the smoke on her exhale as she hands it back to you, and then place the cigarette between your lips, the filter now damp from where it'd been in her mouth.

Anxiety starts to buzz along your skin, quickening your heartbeats, so that you can almost hear it, hammering away somewhere behind your chest walls. Even though it seems absurd to have to ask. Even though, rationally, you know Emily is about as likely to turn you down as she is to heed advice from her mum. Even though Emily is watching you with a look that says she _wants_ to be asked, just so she can say _'yes.'_ Still, it's something you've never done – asked a girl on a date. And so the anticipation of it breeds unexpected apprehension. You take another quick drag and look to Emily's hands, which thread through blades of grass as they often do through your hair.

"Do you want to go on a date then?" It comes out sounding lamer than you'd imagined [and it honestly sounded pretty, fucking lame in your head], and you bite at your lower lip instantly out of habit.

Emily takes her time answering, first smiling up at you then swinging her legs around so she's sat beside you, leaning against the tree trunk at your back. She reaches for your cigarette a second time, takes a slow drag and then leans forward to crush it against the sole of her shoe.

When she sits back and looks over at you, her mouth quirked up adorably and a too-long fringe covering one eye, she just says, "Sure." And then places her hand on your leg just before leaning over to kiss you, her lips touching yours softly and uncertainly like you're both still fourteen, having just drank too many alcopops.

* * *

**Post script:** This was meant to be a one-shot, but it's now apparently a two-shot [those exist, right?] because I couldn't quite wrap things up as I'd planned, and I've got laundry to finish and other boring household chores to start. In any case, drop in to say hello, yeah? I've missed you all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Remember the days of yore when I'd post three chaps of a fic in a week? Now I'm concluding this in less than two weeks and giving myself all sorts of accolades for efficiency. Sad. I've not spent much time editing this second half, but my hope is that it's not total shit because I was meant to post it on Friday for a dear reader who'd been having a rough go of it [sorry, love]. But, perhaps, better late than never?

I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but ROYL is probably as close as it's ever been to completed status so just give me a bit of time to mourn its final chapter, and then I'll post it for all your pretty eyes to see.

* * *

You're sat on the floor of your bedroom in a ratty vest top and knickers when she finds you. Mistakenly, you've left the door ajar, and so of course she lets herself in, propping up against the doorframe with an eager smile.

"Everything all set downstairs then?"

"_Yes_, mum. Just leave it alone, will you?"

She raises her hands in mock defence – your mum's not one to back down for fucking anything, even teenaged rage – and then surveys your clothing, or lack thereof.

"I've not touched a thing, Naomi. But it smells wonderful."

"Thanks," you grumble, picking at a loose thread on your top.

"Oh, why don't you wear that—"

"No, seriously, fucking just—" your eyes cut to hers instantly as you stand to your feet, shaking your head while approaching the door. "I'm not taking fashion advice from my _mum_."

She backs away a pace or two just as you've reached for the door to close it behind her. "Alright, alright. Christ, here I thought you'd be a bit less stroppy once you'd started snogging a pretty girl like Emily."

"_Mum_—"

"I just came up to tell you that I'm buggering off to the centre so I'll not be downstairs to check in on your cooking. You might think to lower the heat if you're—"

"I never asked you to monitor the bloody sauce to start with! Please, mum," you close your eyes then, almost begging, "Can't you just let me be?"

"Not to worry, I'm off, love," she says cheerily, as if you haven't just acted like a massive cow. "Have yourself a nice evening with Emily." Your eyes open and you nearly flinch as your mum's hand briefly touches your frowning face. "First dates are meant to be _fun_ – try and remember that."

* * *

Dates are _not_ fun, you've concluded by five that evening, when you're still not dressed and the sun is already starting to lessen outside your bedroom window.

Snogging is fun.

Shagging is fucking aces.

Sharing thoughts with quick glances or subtle touches is tricky, but something you're learning to master since you can't very well always tell Emily every, little thing that pops into your head while surrounded by your mates.

Lazy Sunday mornings or late Saturday nights – both of which involve Emily staying as close to you as humanly possible – are brilliant in every way.

And so you wonder, stomping across your bedroom in a third tee shirt and a skirt you basically hate to light another cigarette, if it's possible to keep a girlfriend solely by these measures alone without actually _dating_ her.

A message alert on your mobile does nothing but exacerbate your anxiety because Emily promises excitedly that she's on her way, followed by several digital kisses and far too much punctuation.

"Shit," you exhale, scanning your floor for your trainers.

Minutes later, when you pull open the door to your bedroom, the smell registers immediately, hitting you in the face like a wall.

"Shit, shit, shit, _shit_." Your feet fly down the staircase at record speed, the laces on your trainers flapping against your bare legs, and into the kitchen, but it's too, fucking late. The damage done. "_Fuck_!"

It's bad enough you've cocked up dinner – the only part of this sodding plan you'd had any real faith in – you'll now be left to clean the fucking stove as well, covered now in a sticky, burnt vegetarian Bolognese and looking like a crime scene from _Prime Suspect_.

You angrily twist the knob beneath the pot of bubbling sauce, extinguishing the blue flame, and cursing again when a splatter hits your forearm.

Emily arrives not long after you've officially given up, sat at the kitchen table, half-dressed, while chain-smoking fags. And you reckon the only thing worse than serving burnt spaghetti to your date is probably bursting into tears upon her arrival. So you bite hard to the skin inside your cheek and stub out your fag into the tray.

"Hi," Emily smiles from your doorstep, looking exactly as she should for a first date – pressed and lovely and beaming with anticipation of what you've prepared.

She even smells lovely, which isn't out of the ordinary since even Emily's washing powder often makes you swoon like an idiot, but tonight she smells even better, starkly contrasting the charred stench of your kitchen.

"What's the matter?"

You can't really say anything, not without blubbering on like a nutter, so you just shake your head while pressing four fingers against your temple. Emily just steps towards you, easing her way into the house and linking your fingers together as she heads towards the miserable attempt you've made at romancing her.

"What's all this?" she asks, turning again to face you and wearing a look of pity.

"Dinner?"

She nearly stops breathing for half a second. "You cooked me dinner?"

Emily, apparently moved by the sentiment, turns her pitying smile into something much more appreciative and steps in closer to wrap her arms around your neck. You nod sadly even as your hands come to rest on her waist.

"Don't smile like that – it's fucking ruined."

It only makes her smile brighten, your sullen demeanour, so that you have to look away in order to sulk properly.

"It's fine."

"It's clearly _not_ fine, Em. It's all such a fucking mess. How are we meant to eat in the back garden when dinner is currently dripping down my mum's oven?"

Her brow shoots up in curiosity. "In the garden?"

"Forget it, it's—"

Emily doesn't let you finish just slips from your hold and heads through the kitchen towards the back door. She stops after a half-step into the yard so that you practically run right into her when you've followed her out the door.

"Naomi, oh my god."

It wasn't really all that difficult, stringing the lights. You should have taken more time with them because even though the sun's not yet set, you can already see where they're tangled and clumped in parts. But the small table beneath them looks alright. A little Italian bistro inspired, maybe. Just room for two. Your mum's nicer cutlery and glassware already placed. Not that it fucking matters at this point, which is when you're again bombarded with your culinary failure.

Emily turns back to look at you with awe etched all over her face, and it sort of makes you wonder just how low her expectations had been for tonight. "You did all this?"

A flash of nerves hits you then that has nothing to do with burnt spaghetti or the untied laces of your trainers. You're well accustomed to Emily's reactions when you've hurt her, when you've acted like a twat, when you've disappointed her. Because you've spent so long doing everything wrong. What still worries you – because you've not yet learnt to anticipate her responses – is what Emily will say or do when you've done something right.

So you just swallow thickly and nod, biting uselessly at your bottom lip.

Emily doesn't even bother asking whether your mum's around until after she's pulled your tee shirt over your head and unclasped your bra, straddled over you on a sofa in the lounge.

"She's gone all night," you're able to rush out just before Emily's mouth is on yours again.

And Emily just nods as she kisses you, her hand slipping beneath your skirt as you fall back against the cushions.

* * *

"Sorry about dinner."

Emily just laughs where she's laid against your chest and stomach, one hand tucked under your back. "Don't be," she says, sitting up to look at you. "This is the best first date I've ever been on."

You can finally laugh as well, feeling far more relaxed about the entire ordeal now that Emily has made anything that isn't her body pressed into you completely, fucking irrelevant.

"Well if I'd have known you were this easy, I wouldn't have put in half the effort."

Emily squeezes your side, just below your ribcage, and you laugh harder.

When your laughter settles, she props up on one elbow and says, "Are you hungry?"

"Starving, actually."

"Good." Emily reaches up to kiss you, quick and chaste, before slipping off the couch and reaching for her discarded top. "I've got an idea."

* * *

When the bus stops in Clifton Village, Emily pulls you up from your shared seat without a word. You pick up deli sandwiches and then Emily says, "Let's eat them near the bridge, yeah?"

The park's more crowded than you would have thought since the sun is already beginning to dip into the Avon, but Emily doesn't seem to notice and grins happily when she plops down in a clearing away from any trees.

"We should have taken a blanket," you tell her, surveying the area before sitting down with a twist of your mouth when the grass tickles your legs.

"You're too prim for the park floor now?" Emily teases, pulling your paper-wrapped dinner from the bag.

"No, I'd just prefer not to have bugs crawling into my bits."

Emily rolls her eyes and smiles, handing over your Mediterranean aubergine. "I wouldn't worry about the bugs getting into your bits. But, if it'll make you feel better, I can take a peek at them later on just to be sure."

Your head whips around, eyes wide, frantic that any number of people within proximity might have overheard, but Emily only laughs harder, biting into her sandwich.

"Relax," she says, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "No one is paying us any attention, believe me."

She scoots closer to you so that her leg rests right up against yours, your elbows bumping as you each take bites. You'd like very much to argue her point, to tell her she couldn't possibly know who's listening in or watching you at any given time. But you're finding it hard to do much arguing with Emily as of late since nearly every interaction with her tends to result in touching or kissing or removing your clothes, or at least the anticipation of those things. And so your wiring, which used to be so sharp, is all fucked, turned to useless muck by Emily's brown eyes, and crooked smile, and really lovely red hair.

You're maybe thinking of telling her that using crass innuendo isn't really proper behaviour for a first date [or any date that takes place in the middle of a fucking park, really], but you instantly lose sight of that train of thought when you look out across the river.

"What the fuck is that?"

Emily looks up from her sandwich, following your line of vision, then smiles over at you. "_That_, is why no one is paying any attention to us."

It starts with one or two, but in to time, the sky seems impossibly full of them.

"Hot air balloons – are you shitting me?"

"They're holding the fiesta this weekend. Brilliant, isn't it?"

You're silent for a moment, watching as hundreds of balloons float up and over the treetops, moving towards the Avon. But then you've tossed your half-eaten sandwich onto its soggy paper in front of you, frowning at your shoes.

Emily's hand finds your kneecap when she asks, "What is it?"

"Nothing, it's just," you look over at her, brow knitted and lips pursed. "I mean, you just – and we didn't even, but I fucking—"

She laughs just lightly before telling you, "Do you want to try that again?"

You huff in frustration. "You're better at this than me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Emily drops her own sandwich before turning towards you, criss-crossing her legs.

Your arms fold across your stomach on instinct, defensive against her amusement. Against the warmth of her hand on your leg.

"I made a plan. I did a full, fucking shop. I strung lights, for fuck's sake. And you just – you just, _'oh, let's get sandwiches and sit at a park so that hundreds of balloons can float overhead in the midst of a gorgeous sunset._'"

"Naomi, it's not a competition," she laughs.

You're still scowling, even as Emily moves her hand back and forth along your knee. "Competition or not, you're still winning."

"I don't know, I sort of liked the way your date turned out." Her voice has dropped, taking on a tone you're all-too familiar with, as her hand stills, and your skin sort of prickles as a result.

The balloons continue their ascent, hovering over the Avon and making their way beside the bridge, but Emily's no longer watching them, her eyes on you as you shift awkwardly under her gaze.

You clear your throat. "Yeah?"

When your eyes cut quickly to her face, Emily smiles, her eyes mischievously darkened as she nods.

"Emily," you say a moment later. "You're missing the fiesta." Because she's still just watching you with a cheeky smirk.

She spins back round so that her hip meets yours before lying back onto the cool grass. You follow her a moment later, and then sigh contentedly when her hand slips into yours. Minutes pass as a barrage of colours float overhead, and you gradually tune out every other sensation other than the sights above and the feel of Emily's thumb moving slowly over your hand.

When Emily's head tilts onto your shoulder you think, perhaps dating isn't total shit. Perhaps this too will be added to the growing list of things you've always detested on principal, only to have Emily, in her subtle, unsuspecting ways, change your mind. You smile to yourself and think about listing 'dating' right after 'long bicycle rides,' 'college balls,' and 'blowbacks.'


End file.
